


A Thread Runs Through It

by Miss_Apocalypto



Series: Tales of the Dragon Age [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Affairs, Beating, Betrayal, Canonical Character Death, Doomed Relationship, Dysfunctional Family, Explicit Language, F/M, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Issues, Family Member Death, Family Secrets, Feels, Fluff, Gore, Imprisonment, Intrigue, Poverty, Royalty, Sexual Content, Survival, Violence, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 05:58:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9308447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Apocalypto/pseuds/Miss_Apocalypto
Summary: The day Duncan left Ostagar to gather reinforcements for the King’s armies and recruits for the Grey Wardens, he had no idea the effect he would have on not just the one life he’d select for the Joining, but the impact his absence had on those he did not.A five times Duncan wasn't there, and the one time he was. What happens to the other potential Wardens if he's not there to save them?Arelativelyshort exploration of all six Origin stories based on all of my characters from my various playthroughs.





	1. Rejected by the Ancestors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyri Brosca faces the consequences of her actions at the Proving held in Lady Rota Aeducan's honor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _BioWare_ and _Electronic Arts_ own _Dragon Age: Origins_. I do not. I'm just playing in their universe, using characters and storylines they've created to satisfy my own overactive imagination.

>   _You are casteless, the dirty secret staining Orzammar’s perfect society, forced, along with your sister, to sell your services to the crime lord, Beraht. To the rest of Orzammar, you are proof that the casteless deserve their fate; but you know you do what you have to—the same as everyone—just to survive._

In a secret tunnel carved through the rock beneath a storefront, Lyri Brosca lie unconscious on a bit of rotting hay piled in the corner of a cell chiseled out of the wall. Her clothes were torn and dirty and ill-fitting, and her body was covered in cuts and bruises, the most severe of which was the massive gash above her right eyebrow where a guard had nearly cracked her skull open under the pretense of restraining her. The bleeding had long since slowed, but her crimson hair was matted with dried blood.

She regained consciousness by degrees when a small crack in the ceiling of her cell began to drip cold water onto her face. Her head throbbed so violently, it made her eyes cross for a few moments before she finally managed to focus through the pain. She touched her forehead and winced, rubbing the old blood between her fingers. Blinking slowly, she looked around, trying to discern where she was and what had happened to her. With great effort, she pushed herself upright and leaned her back against the nearest wall, resting her head against the cool stone in an effort to ease the angry hammer banging away at the inside of her skull.

The last thing she remembered was the Proving. Knocking all those smug, self-righteous, nug-humping nobles and warriors into the dirt, into the _dust_ , one after the other. Listening to the roar of the crowd as they cheered her on. It didn’t matter that it had been another’s name on their lips; the raw energy of their praise was hers alone. It had been her skills that won the day, her training, her reflexes. Her. Lyri Brosca. Warrior. Champion. _Duster._

 _No…_ It hurt to even think the word. It wasn’t true. Not anymore and perhaps it never had been. Everd’s armor had done the impossible; it had erased the ink from her skin for a day. It had given her the chance to be herself instead of what the brand allowed her to be. When Lyri was standing in the center of the Proving arena, victorious, with the thunderous applause and shouts of the audience vibrating through every inch of her body, all of Orzammar saw her for what she really was better than they ever had when they could see her face. She wasn’t a Duster. She was their Champion.

And now she was in a cell.

Even though she was fuzzy on the details, it wasn’t difficult to figure out what must have happened. She had the vague impression that Everd must have awakened. How else could Leske and her little rouse have unraveled? And now she was in prison. _Rica…_ Her heart twisted into painful knots at the thought of her beautiful older sister. So sweet and serene and innocent despite the things Beraht made her do. The crime boss had turned her into noble-hunting gold and Rica still harbored the small hope that whatever noble she managed to bag wouldn’t just love the son she could give him, but see her for who she was beyond the brand and love her too. Like Lyri, Rica sought to hide her brand in another’s clothes. In silks and pretty things instead of iron and steel.

Lyri had always been protective of her as if _she_ was the elder and Rica the younger. And Beraht had threatened to end them _both_ if he lost money on the Provings. Lyri looked around the small cell again and groaned. Beraht’s loss was a certainty, and that meant Rica was in danger. She had to find a way out. “Lyri? Is that you?” a familiar voice whispered harshly through the darkness, “Are you awake yet? Can you hear me?

“Leske?” Lyri whispered back and she scrambled to the bars of her cell gracelessly. There was light outside her cell. A single torch in the bracket on the wall. The flickering light illuminated the small cellblock. Just two cells: hers and Leske’s. It was obviously _not_ a sanctioned prison. They were somewhere else. _But where?_ Lyri’s heart thudded loudly in her chest.

Leske’s face came into view between the bars of the cell perpendicular to her own. “How hard did they sodding hit you, anyway?” he asked, squinting at her, “Did you have to put up such a fight?”

“What happened?” she demanded, “At the Proving…?”

“What do you think sodding happened?” Leske exclaimed and shook his head in disgust, though it was clear it wasn’t directed at her. “As soon as everyone saw your face-brand, the place when mad,” he explained, “Shut all the doors, examined everyone for family and caste. Lady Aeducan, _herself_ , had to calm everyone down before there was a riot. But she didn’t stay long afterward, her armed escort didn’t think it was safe for her to remain at a _compromised_ Proving.” He scoffed. “One of the guards recognized me and figured we must be working together.” He frowned. “They burnt three candles to the stump interrogating me about who put us up to this. I think they knew, you know, about Beraht.”

“Of course they knew,” Lyri spat, “But he’s greased enough palms not to get in trouble for this directly. He’ll just lose face in front of the nobles while we’ll lose—what’s the punishment for ridiculing the entire Warrior Caste?”

“Public whipping,” Leske began ticking the list of punishments off his fingers, “Loss of your left hand for stealing the armor. Loss of your _right_ hand for befouling a smith’s work…”

“Fuck,” Lyri sighed.

“Public flaying for impersonating a higher caste,” Leske continued, “And, if that doesn’t kill you, they’ll put you to death for polluting the Proving.” He sighed, “The _only_ good news is you _somehow_ managed to impress Lady Aeducan and she suggested exile for our crimes instead of death, but it was still being debated. She might be the daughter of the King of Orzammar, but an _entire_ caste was royally pissed off about what happened in the arena. I wouldn’t hold my breath, if I were you.”

Lyri chewed the inside of her lip. It was too much to hope that Lady Rota Aeducan would choose to spare two dusters over the dignity of the Warrior Caste, but it gave Lyri a small sense of pleasure knowing that she had impressed the princess and commander enough to merit even the suggestion. But her ego wasn’t what was important at that moment. Rica was. “Beraht said he’d go after Rica if this all went to shit,” she reminded her friend, “We have to get out of here—wherever here _is_?”

Leske grunted in agreement and looked around. “This place doesn’t look like your typical guardhouse prison,” he thought aloud as he looked around his cell, “I mean, I’ve been in most of them. They don’t usually have—this many bloodstains on the walls…” He swallowed hard. “Any chance you see a way out?”

Before Lyri could answer, the sound of someone approaching drew their conversation to an abrupt halt and both dwarves skittered back from the bars to lurk in the shadows and wait for whoever it was. It wasn’t as if the darkness could really protect them, but it was instinct, a reflex to hide for survival, and, as Dusters, that was all they knew how to do: survive. The woman who stepped into the light outside their cells, however, came as a surprise to them both: Jarvia. “Good,” she said when she glared into their cells at them, “You’re awake. Beraht will be glad to hear that.”

 _Maybe we’re not in too much trouble after all…_ It was a vain hope Lyri didn’t even really believe. If Beraht wasn’t angry with them for what happened at the Provings, then he was a fool and they wouldn’t be locked up. “What are you doing here, Jarvia?” Lyri asked sharply.

Jarvia smirked. “You caused a lot of trouble today,” she chastised menacingly, “Beraht lost a hundred sovereigns for Lord Vollney. The entire Proving was declared invalid, and the Assembly already called for an investigation. You can’t imagine the state Beraht was in when he told me to get you.”

Lyri chewed on the tip of her tongue, frowning. The only silver lining to what Jarvia was telling her was the possibility that Beraht might actually catch a little more heat for the Proving fiasco than she had originally thought possible. Though it warmed her heart to know the sleaze would get what he deserved, it did nothing to improve her own situation. If Beraht couldn’t do anything to the dwarves leading the investigation, then he’d punch down. Right into Dust Town, at Lyri’s loved ones.

“Let me talk to Beraht,” Leske offered, trying to talk his way out of trouble, as usual, which was just fine with Lyri. Of the two of them, Leske had the silver tongue. “I can explain everything. This was all just a big misunderstanding.”

“All he needs to know is that you exposed him before the entire Warrior Caste,” Jarvia shot back, “Now they’re asking questions, and as long as you have tongues to answer them, you’re a threat.” She smirked darkly. “Enjoy your last night together,” she teased, “Sorry we had to put you in separate cells, or I’d suggest you have a last tumble. Beraht’ll be by soon to make sure you maintain your silence.” She chuckled sinisterly as she sauntered away. Moments later, a guard took his position near the torch to watch the prisoners until Beraht arrived.

Lyri frowned and returned to the bars to share a glance with Leske. _How are we going to get out of this one?_ Before Leske could come up with a halfway decent scheme to get them both out of there, he saw the familiar dangerous glint of an idea spark in Lyri’s eyes. Suddenly, she was shouting at the guard. Loudly. Obnoxiously. Persistently. “Hey hey hey! Hey you! Hey you there with the egg head that smells of nug shit!” she bellowed, “Yes, you, half-wit! Who the fuck else would I be talking to?”

“Lyri!” Leske growled, worried his friend was going to provoke the guard into a violent fury and throttle her to death. _Of course, then he’ll have to open her cell…_ and he smirked, finally understanding what his partner-in-crime was on about.

The guard sneered and approached Lyri’s cell. “Hey! Leave off with your noise, bitch!” he snarled, “You’re giving me a headache.”

Lyri’s mouth twitched with amusement. It was almost too easy. “I just wanted to know how long I’ll be here,” she said simply, almost apologetically.

The guard was momentarily flummoxed. “I-I don’t know,” he answered, his deep, slow voice marking his real consideration for and confusion over her question. “I’m—I’m not supposed to talk to you,” he said as if suddenly remembering his orders, “Mistress Jarvia said wait here ‘til the boss gets back.”

Leske openly rolled his eyes at the back of the guard’s head, but Lyri managed an expression that looked almost sympathetic—and then suddenly queasy. “Oh, but I’m feeling weak,” she said in her best damsel-in-distress voice that sounded vaguely like Rica’s honey-sweet tone, “And dizzy! I-I think I might…” And then she swayed dangerously, giving credibility to her claim before she stabilized herself against the bars again with hands as strong as the stone.

Leske was all over it. “When that happened to my sister, healer said it was the plague,” he chimed in with his sincerest tone, “Said if she wasn’t treated right away, everyone who’d seen her would die.” And Lyri hammed it up, groaning low and clutching at her face.

The idiot guard bought it. “D-die?” he repeated fearfully, “I don’t want to die.”

“I need help,” Lyri choked out, sagging against the bars, “Please…”

“Aren’t you going to help her?” Leske demanded urgently.

Panicking, the guard looked between his two prisoners for several moments, trying to make up whatever passed for his mind. Lyri let out a very convincingly painful-sounding moan to push him along. “I-I’ll come in there and take a look,” he said, arriving at what he undoubtedly thought was a good compromise. And just like that, he opened Lyri’s cell door and entered, getting well within striking distance before attempting any precautionary measures. “Now hold still,” he ordered, “While I tie your hands behind your back.”

Lyri scoffed and viciously head-butted the guard, breaking his nose. He staggered back and she was upon him before he could draw his sword. “I don’t even have a sister!” Leske called over the sound of Lyri’s heavy fists pounding against the other dwarf’s face. When she was done with the guard, she took the cell key from his belt and released Leske. “By the stone,” he said as he walked through the door, “Did you beat him to death with your bare hands?”

“He still breathes,” she said, panting, “I think.” She went back and held her hand beneath the guard’s nose. A very delicate stream of air blew against her forefinger. “Yep.” She considered him carefully. It was smarter to just kill him and have done with it. No one left behind to sound alarms and bring the whole Carta hideout down upon their heads before she and Leske even had the chance to find the exit. But the truth was, she sort of felt sorry for the sad, stupid guard. Earlier that day, she had been where he was: just another one of Beraht’s desperate muscles-for-hire. It had been a very short trip from outside the cell into it. Her mouth twitched with indecision before she finally made up her mind.

Deftly, she stripped him down and donned his gear. It was ill-fitting, but it was better than nothing. “What are you doing?” Leske asked, his brows furrowed as he watched Lyri drag the guard to sit upright against the bars.

“Making sure he’s cozy,” she quipped as she ripped the guard’s small clothes clean from his waist and used the tattered pieces to tie his hands to the bars behind him. “You’re supposed to tie a prisoner up like _this_ before you enter a cell,” she whispered in his ear, though she doubted he could hear her, “For future reference.” Though it was unlikely he had much of a future now that he had been bested on his guard detail.

Leske rolled his eyes and made a sound of disgust. “Are you done screwing around?” he asked as she straightened and walked out of the cell.

“Almost,” she replied and then she closed and locked the cell door behind her.

“Now?”

“One more thing.” She turned and took two purposeful steps toward Leske and before he realized what she was on about, her mouth was on his with a fierceness and urgency that surprised him and heated his blood. When she pulled away from him, he just stared at her for a moment, completely confused and strangely aroused.

“Is this the part where you tell me you’ve always secretly loved me?” he asked suspiciously, utterly confounded.

Lyri snorted. “Nope,” she replied brightly, “Just didn’t want to die without doing it at least once.”

Leske relaxed. _Classic Lyri_. He doubted she ever thought of him that way. He certainly never saw her in that light before she was shoving her tongue in his mouth, and even now that there was some space between them, he felt his view of her shift back into the old familiar—though maybe she was a little prettier than before. Jarvia had been the one to put it out there, hadn’t she? _‘…a last tumble.’_ It wasn’t a tumble and it probably never would be now or in the future if they ever made it out. They had no time or real inclination, and there were far more important things at stake: like their lives. But it was something small. Just in case. And it was a sentiment Leske could appreciate. “Let’s get a move on then,” he said and they raided the nearest equipment chest to find something for him before making their way through the rest of the Carta’s hideout.

* * *

Lyri pulled her scavenged sword from Beraht’s gullet and wiped the blood coating the metal on the fallen dwarf’s trousers. Never had she ever felt more relief and joy in the destruction of another being. Beraht, her family’s patron turned sinister enemy, was dead. The food his gold put on their table would be missed, but they had survived before without him and they could do it again. All that mattered was that Beraht hadn’t had the chance to get to Rica. Her sister was safe and if the noble she was courting was still truly interested—and, Ancestors willing, she gave him a son—she’d be set for the rest of her life. _Not with a Proving-polluting sister like me…_ Lyri reminded herself. Rica’s unfortunate relation to Lyri might be enough to scare any noble off, no matter how badly he wanted a son for his House. _I can’t stay._ She made up her mind right there.

“Did you see him there, all, ‘When we’re done with you’?” Leske asked, laughing, “And you just charged in and sodding slaughtered him!” He was almost giddy with relief. They were going to make it out of there alive, after all. “You have to be the luckiest Duster in Orzammar,” he shook his head happily, “Beraht’s dead and we’re standing here! Hail to the sodding king!”

Lyri couldn’t help but smirk at her friend’s pleasure. “He should have known better,” she replied, “I won a sodding Proving today, after all. What did he think was going to happen? I’d just lay down and die?” She scoffed and glared hatefully at Beraht’s corpse. “He was asking for it.”

Leske grinned sinisterly. “Oh, he was begging, alright,” he agreed, “That look of utter surprise on his face when he tasted his own blood. That was as close to begging as Beraht gets.”

Lyri grunted her agreement. “All that matters is that he didn’t make it to Rica,” she said with an air of finality as she stepped away from the gore pooling around her feet.

“Well, he was sure talking like she’s still alive,” Leske said thoughtfully, “But I won’t turn down the chance to go take another peek.” Lyri rolled her eyes and turned away from her friend, shaking her head as she moved toward the back of the room. _Back to the same old Leske_ , and she was actually very pleased for it. “Hey,” he called after her as he jogged to catch up, “Could you tell Rica I killed him?” he asked, “I mean, it doesn’t do you any good if she thinks you’re the most virile warrior in all the stone…”

“Ha!” she balked, “Do you really want to ask me that when I’m holding a weapon?”

He put his hands up in mock surrender. “Point taken,” he conceded, “Now let’s get out of here before someone comes to investigate.”

* * *

It took a combination of Leske’s silver tongue and Lyri’s iron fists to convince the shopkeep whose store fronted the entrance to the Carta’s hideout to hand over a couple of hooded cloaks. After that, he was only too happy to agree to Lyri’s suggestion that he’d never laid eyes on the pair of them in his entire life. Then they left, wrapped in cloaks they could have never afforded, hoods drawn to hide their branded faces. They were a bit too conspicuously inconspicuous and Lyri worried they wouldn’t be able to make it through the Commons and back to Dust Town without catching the wrong kind of attention. Especially since there was a noted increase of guard patrols and the Proving Master, himself, was out on the streets, searching faces for shameful ink. Apparently, Jarvia had not been subtle when she broke Lyri and Leske out of Orzammar’s prison.

But they made it. Slowly but surely, the two Dusters wound their way through the Commons to the steps descending to Dust Town. Leske took the stairs two at a time, nearly breaking his neck in the process in his hurry to find some shred relative safety. Lyri trailed behind him, trying to work out how she was going to say goodbye to Rica and live to make it to the surface, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this little project started out as a pallet cleanser for another work. Basically, this is what I piddle around with when I'm not working on _Rise of the Last Dragonborn_ which is my main fanfic--though I was toying with the idea of starting a fully realized _Dragon Age: Origins_ fanfic once this little mini-series of DA delights is complete. We'll see.
> 
> Also, don't panic, I'm not done with Lyri yet. Her story sort of bleeds into the next, so find her conclusion in the next chapter.


	2. Paragon of Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Rota Aeducan takes an interest in a young Duster who impressed her at the Provings. Later, she must navigate the dangerous terrain of Dwarven politics with her beloved Second, Gorim Saelac, always at her side.

> _Secure in Orzammar’s impregnable construction, the dwarven noble houses continue their centuries-old power struggles. You are the second child of King Endrin of House Aeducan—the ninth Aeducan ruler elected by the Noble Assembly. You grew up in a world rife with political intrigue and have struggled against brothers and cousins for honor and prestige._

Rota Aeducan was in the process of undoing her Second, Gorim Saelac’s, trousers when a messenger pounded on her bedroom door. With the speed and reflex of having to do so hundreds of times before, she and Gorim sprung apart and away from the wall she had roughly pushed him up against. Gorim sidled sideways behind the changing screen to right his trousers and ease his arousal while Rota picked up her sword to look busy polishing it. Though he found the irony of her chosen task painfully amusing. “Enter,” she commanded the instant Gorim looked presentable.

The messenger rushed in and hastily bowed, almost tipping forward. “I beg your pardon, my lady,” he said, hastily straightening to prevent himself from falling face first onto the ground, “But you asked me to alert you if any progress was made in the investigation of the two Dusters who disrupted your Proving today.”

Rota raised a brass eyebrow. “Aye,” she confirmed, “And?”

“A witnessed placed them sneaking back into Dust Town,” he answered hurriedly, “A force of guards is gathering now to apprehend them.”

Rota’s expression turned thoughtful, but Gorim new her answer before she gave it. “I’ll be right there.”

“My lady, your father is expecting you at the feast soon,” he reminded his lover gently.

She hardly spared him a glance. “Hand me my shield, Gorim,” she ordered, sternly, “This won’t take long.”

“Yes, my lady,” Gorim answered dutifully. He knew there was no arguing with her and not just because the messenger was present. She’d already made up her mind about the Duster when she watched her win the Proving.

“And you,” she turned to the messenger again, “The prize for the Proving, fetch it for me. You’ll find us in Dust Town.”

The messenger’s eyes widened slightly, but he managed to keep the rest of his face relatively neutral. As soon as he was gone, Gorim approached his lady. “I know what you’re thinking and it’s not a good idea,” he warned.

“You say that about most of my ideas,” she commented dryly, “Even when I wanted to take you as a lover.”

“Because that was possibly the worse idea you’ve ever had,” he replied sharply, but lovingly, “But this could get you into trouble with your father.”

“Nothing gets me into trouble with father,” she replied, “Even bedding you.”

Gorim pursed his lips. It was true. King Endrin doted on his darling daughter throughout her childhood and when she was too old for such affection, he found other ways to spoil her. Like allowing her to become the most fearsome warrior of House Aeducan instead of resigning her to the life of a vapid noble woman. To be fair, he would have had no peace from Rota had he insisted otherwise, but turning a blind eye to her taste in men was the king’s largest demonstration of his affection.

She was allowed to have Gorim because he made her happy which made Endrin happy. It was conditional, of course. The affair must be kept secret lest the salacious gossip ruin Rota and House Aeducan by extension. And neither Gorim nor Rota were under the impression that they would ever be allowed to marry and should she become pregnant—Gorim thanked the Ancestors that Rota was too smart to let anything so careless happen. So it was that their relationship would always be restricted to a series of dalliances, but Gorim would rather have Rota that way than not at all.

“Come, Gorim,” Rota said, her voice commanding and gentle all at once, “It’s quite a walk to Dust Town—especially while trying to dodge an armed escort.” Gorim sighed and shook his head, frustrated and besotted with the Lady Aeducan who looked as beautiful in dwarven steel as she did in lace.

* * *

Dust Town was no place for nobles. That was abundantly clear the second Rota and Gorim stepped foot into the dirty, stinking slum. Everything about the place offended their senses and screamed at them that they did not belong. “We should not be here,” Gorim stated as he glared down an approaching beggar until he scurried off, afraid for his life.

“No one should,” Rota replied and he heard the pity in her voice. That was why he loved her. That warm, tender heart of hers wrapped deep beneath the layers of muscle-bound skill and sharp political mind. He couldn’t help but think of how much better a ruler she would make than Trian. A benevolent queen, fair and generous instead of the insufferably arrogant king all but destined to take the throne.

“Let’s be quick,” he urged and she nodded, schooling her expression into indifference. Only Gorim was privy to such vulnerable moments. Only he had the pleasure of seeing Rota while everyone else saw only Lady Aeducan.

They hurried down the crooked, narrow street toward the retinue of guards gathered at the far end. Most of the inhabitants of the slum had been scared off by the guards, so Rota and Gorim went unmolested. They arrived in time to see the Duster from the Proving walk out of the shack she called home with her head held high… _Like the champion she is,_ Rota thought. “Drop your weapon and walk down slowly,” the Proving Master commanded, “We will use force if you resist.”

The Duster scoffed and gestured to the wound on her forehead. It had been cleaned up, but not yet bandaged. “You’ll use force anyway,” she pointed out.

“You do not speak until the Shapers have judged you!” the Proving Master all but bellowed and the guards around him grew restless, taking a step toward the Duster.

Just then, another woman came out of the shack and threw herself between the guards and the fugitive. “No!” she pleaded, “Please have mercy on her!” Rota instantly recognized her as the woman she had found in Bhelen’s room earlier that day. Rica. She exchanged glances with Gorim to confirm her suspicions and saw her expression mirrored in his own.

“Take them both!” the Proving Master ordered, “And where is the other Duster? Her accomplice?” The guards moved in closer.

“Wait,” Rota bellowed, her golden voice echoing through the slum and halting the guards in their places as they glanced back to see who had given such an authoritative order. They all nearly died of shock when they saw Lady Aeducan, not least of which the two Duster women, and fumbled to bow in her presence.

“My Lady Aeducan!” the Proving Master gasped, “You should not be here amongst this filth!”

Rota raised an eyebrow. “Are you telling me where I, Rota of House Aeducan, Princess of Orzammar, King Endrin’s _only_ daughter, and newest Commander of Orzammar’s armies, am _allowed_ to tread in my father’s kingdom?” she demanded.

“Of course not, my lady!” the Proving Master assured, terrified he had insulted Rota. He had heard how the princess dealt with Bruntin Vollney. They all had, and all that minor lord had done was threaten a scholar she happened to favor. He cast a cautious glance toward Gorim and the Second practically reveled in the sway his lady so effortlessly held.

“Good,” Rota replied sharply, “That would be a most unwise course of action for anyone.”

The Proving Master shifted uncomfortably. “Indeed, my lady,” he agreed, “What I meant was that you honor us with your presence. Dust Town is unworthy of you.”

“I decide what is and isn’t worth my time,” Rota replied, “But thank you, my lord. You are too kind.”

The dwarf noble relaxed. “It is my pleasure,” he assured, “But, I must beg your pardon yet again. We were about to arrest these Dusters for polluting today’s Proving held your honor.”

“Yes, I know,” she sighed, “Stay your blades a moment.” And then she stepped forward, making her way through the soldiers until she was standing in front of Rica who was still trembling on the ground, dirtying her pretty silken dress. Rota stared down at her intently for a moment before turning her attention to the fugitive Duster. “Help this poor woman to her feet,” she said, “Her kindness does her credit to risk her life for a _stranger_.” Her emphasis on the word tugged timid understanding from Rica and grateful relief from the Duster, but she helped Rica to her feet as she was bid to. Unbeknownst to either Duster or Princess, they each had their own reasons for wanting to distance Rica from the unseemly connection, though it was evident enough in arrangement of Rica’s features that the fugitive was her sister. “What is your name?” Rota asked once Rica was righted and sheepishly stood aside.

“Lyri Br…” she stopped before she announced her surname, “Just Lyri.”

“Named after Lyrium, I suspect,” Rota observed, “Orzammar’s richest export.”

Lyri pursed her lips. “I’d have to ask my mother, but she’s—dead.” Rica winced at the response.

Rota nodded her head imperceptibly, but did not immediately respond. She simply looked Lyri over from head to toe, and back up again, her eyes finally coming to rest on the face-brand. “How came you to be entered in my Proving?” she asked, her lovely blues eyes darting to lock onto Lyri’s green ones.

“My lady, this is a matter for the Assembley…” the Proving Master began.

“You interrupt Lady Aeducan, my lord,” Gorim gruffly reminded the elder man who abruptly fell into a sour silence.

Lyri’s jaw tightened and for a moment she looked as if she was considering remaining silent, but a gentle, nearly silent plea from Rica pushed her to answer. “I used to work for Beraht,” she answered, “And he had a lot of money invested in the Provings. He wanted u— _me_ —to fix it so the long shot would win, but when I got to Everd’s room, he was too drunk to stand much less fight.”

“So you took his place?” Rota asked, “That demonstrates some initiative on your part.”

“Motivation,” Lyri corrected, “Beraht said he’d have my head if I failed. He’s not one to dwell on details. I figured it didn’t matter if it was my failure or Everd’s, it was still coin out of his pocket, and Beraht’s not the generous type. If he couldn’t pocket sovereigns, he’d settle for taking my head.”

“Colorful,” Rota commented, but she seemed amused by Lyri’s speech rather than offended, “We all know what happened then, but how, in the name of the Ancestors, did you get out of prison and wind up here?”

“Beraht wanted me silenced,” Lyri responded, “So he sent his lackeys to take me. Or so I assume. I woke up in a Carta cell. I don’t know how I got there. But I fought my way back out and— _terminated_ my employment along the way.”

“You killed Beraht?” Rota asked, deeply impressed, and she glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the Proving Master. “Did you not suggest that Beraht might have been behind everything?” she reminded him, “Or have you changed your mind?”

“Regardless, the penalty for impersonating a higher caste is death, my lady,” the Proving Master replied as respectfully as possible.

“Yes,” Rota replied and then returned her attention to Lyri, “But I’d say she’s done us a greater service is getting rid of caste-climbing scum like Beraht, wouldn’t you say?”

“Beraht had many enemies, but also powerful allies,” the elder dwarf answered, “They will seek retribution…” The Proving Master was stuck. He could feel it. He didn’t want to take responsibility for a Duster who would have half of Orzammar baying for her blood for taking Beraht’s head and the other half demanding her execution for the insult paid to the Warrior Caste. That was a bloody mess in which he did not want to be caught in the middle. It was better that Lyri disappeared entirely. Put to death or exiled, but it had to be done without delay. “What are you suggesting, Lady Aeducan?” he asked at length.

Rota looked back at Lyri, something like a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “She fought hard in the Provings,” she said, “I’d say she’s earned her life, at the very least.”

“But my lady…”

“You were all cheering for her, or don’t you remember?” she snapped, “Was it just the armor and the noble title you cheered, or was it the skill too?” While she waited for a response, the messenger she had charged earlier with fetching the champion’s helm finally arrived bearing the winnings. She bid him to approach. “It was _my_ Proving,” she said, taking the helm, “And, considering the special circumstance, I’ll do what I like with its champion. Objections?”

“None, my lady,” the Proving Master relented, deciding it was better not to cross the Lady Aeducan.

“Good,” but she still had a caste to satisfy, “Then Lyri will be exiled to the surface with only the armor and blade on her back.” She held out the helm. “Your winnings, champion.” Lyri nearly died of shock as she accepted the fine piece of armor and reveled to hear Rota call her ‘champion.’

The Proving Master made his sentiments knowns of course. “That helm was crafted by the best of the Smith Caste! You insult them all by giving it to her!”

Rota rolled her eyes, but only Lyri, Rica, and Gorim saw it as she was turned away from the Proving Master. “Orzammar is filled with too many easily slighted nobles,” she commented, “The matter’s settled. Take her to the gates and speak of it no more.”

Still outraged, but well aware that he would be unable to find a foothold against Rota, the Proving Master nodded to the guards to comply to their princess’ orders. Warily, Lyri went with them freely. With one last, long look, she wordlessly bid farewell to Rica who wept to see her sister go. As she walked passed Rota, she slowed and one of the guards checked her in the small of her back to keep moving. She growled, but did not hurry her steps. “Thank you, Lady Aeducan,” she said, “I will not forget this.”

Rota smirked and that’s when Gorim saw it, when he fully understood why his lady had taken such an interest in the Duster. It wasn’t just Lyri’s plight or battle prowess, though those things certain added to it. Whatever caste separated them, they were made of the same stone. Princess and Duster. Even though it was a vaguely disrespectful thought to entertain, he couldn’t shake it from his mind. That Lyri was more than the brand on her face in the same way that Rota was more than the Aeducan crest on her shield. “Best of the vein to you, Lyri,” she replied, “May you live happier above ground than you did below it.” And she watched as Lyri was taken away.

Rota lingered a moment and glanced back at Rica. “Good day, good woman,” she said politely, “I suspect we’ll meet again.”

Rica swallowed and shamelessly wiped away her tears. “Yes, my lady, I hope so,” she replied, “Thank you, my lady.” Rota nodded and then she and Gorim made their way back to the Diamond Quarter.

* * *

That night, Gorim held Rota’s strong, naked body to his own and lost himself in the scent of her hair. During the feast when Endrin presented his daughter to the other nobles as their newest commander, Lady Aeducan proved her cunning by gracefully sidestepping a little crude politicking orchestrated by Lord Dace. And when her involvement in the sentencing of the Duster was brought up by another noble, she was unwavering and proud. Fire could not melt the iron will from her body, and though King Endrin would have preferred his daughter had stayed out of the matter entirely, he was pleased she had found such a prudent compromise.

It was what happened _after_ the feast that plagued Gorim’s mind now in the lazy hours of the night while he held his lover to his chest. Bhelen had revealed Trian’s plans to move against Rota. Siblings plotting against siblings was not an uncommon occurrence in Dwarven political history, but he knew how deeply it wounded his princess. That soft heart of hers loved her family dearly, whatever their faults. To her credit, she hardly batted an eyelash when Bhelen gave her the news. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought she had been expecting it. For his part, Gorim felt his heart drop into his gut when the prince told them of the plot. As both her Second and her lover, he was ready to give his life for her at any moment, but he feared that whatever Trian had planned for her, Rota and his combined strength would not be enough to weather it.

But if they played it right, Rota would be next in line for the throne. _Rota of House Aeducan, Queen of Orzammar._ It sounded like a dream he’d had one too many times. He’d be the Queen’s Second and the very idea made his head spin. It wasn’t just the increase in responsibility, he was more or less prepared to meet that head on, but it would signal the end of his relationship with Rota. Their affair would be too costly for a queen in need of heirs. _The only thing she wouldn’t be able to afford_ , he thought darkly and if she didn’t end it first then he was duty-bound to do it for her. That was something for which he was _not_ prepared, and it made his heart ache to think of it.

He sighed heavily and rolled onto his back, his arm still wrapped around Rota. It was late; he should have returned to his own bed long ago, but he was reluctant to be far from her side. Especially now. Beside him, she stirred, sleepily aware that he had moved and he looked down at her sleeping face. Gently, he ran his fingers through her silken auburn hair and kissed her forehead. When he pulled away, her eyes were open, staring at him. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispered.

She smiled, soft and lazy. “You never stay,” she muttered back, “I’m glad you stayed.”

He kissed her forehead again. “I never stay because it’s dangerous,” he reminded her.

“And now?”

“I’m afraid it’s too dangerous to leave.”

Her brow puckered and she shifted against him, freeing a hand from her bedcovers and touching his face. She stroked his beard lovingly. “You are my shield, love,” she said, “And I am your blade. Together, no one can overtake us. Not even—not even Trian.”

He rolled onto his side to better face her and stroked her side from hip to elbow. “I would die for you,” he said, his voice deep and gentle.

“Don’t talk like that,” she chastised, her hand slipping over his mouth to press a finger against his lips.

He smiled patiently and pulled her hand away, placing it against his heart. “No, listen to me, my love,” he insisted, “I would die for you. And should that come to pass, I need you to swear you’ll honor me by living.”

Her lip trembled and tears gathered in her eyes, but she was too tough to break. Briefly, her eyes slid shut and she gave one curt nod before looking at him again. “I swear it,” she promised without so much as a tremor in her voice. “Now break my heart no more,” she pleaded, “It is I who embraces you tonight; not the stone.” And she kissed him, heated and needy. He gave himself up to her demands because, in the end, he was always powerless before his beloved princess.

* * *

Rota stared at Trian’s signet ring in abject horror and disbelief. _So it’s true,_ she thought and her heart broke within her. Gorim was too busy talking to the scouts to offer her comfort, but she was glad for it. At that moment, what she needed more was a moment to herself—a moment to grieve the brother she though Trian had been. It was hard not to think of what he had been like when they were children. Still insufferably arrogant, yes, but—loving, too. He used to play hide-and-seek with her for hours and read bedtime stories until she fell asleep. He had been a proper older brother, despite being surly and mean to others, sometimes. Admittedly, age did not improve him, but she had always clung to those few good memories and prayed to the Ancestors that young Trian was not lost. Just hiding.

Now, she buried that hope with her heart. Trian’s sloppy betrayal would not go unanswered. Though she doubted that she would ever be able to bring herself to take her brother’s life, she was determined to expose him. “Are you ready, my lady?” Gorim asked when he was done consulting the scouts about the tunnel ahead.

“Yes, Gorim,” she replied, “Let’s move on.” She and Gorim took the fore as they continued onward, back to the Crossroads to rendezvous with the others and hold Trian accountable for his actions.

“Are you alright?” Gorim asked softly so the scouts wouldn’t hear.

Rota glanced at him sideways. “I’ll be fine,” she assured, “It will be better once we put an end to this.”

He nodded. “Yes, my lady,” he replied formally and she looked at him curiously again. He wondered if she never even entertained the idea of ending their relationship. If, for her, it was still a possibility regardless of whether or not she was queen. But he couldn’t ask her. They couldn’t afford to hash that out now, not when they both had to be on high alert for more misery and betrayal.

They headed into a tunnel without any apparent exit than the one at the other end, just beyond the bend blocking it perfectly from view. Ambush territory, as Gorim was quick to point out. “If Trian was really scheming against us,” he said, drawing the party’s progress to a halt, “ _This_ would be the perfect place for an ambush. We got the shield and we’re all alone out here.”

“Keep your wits about you then,” Rota replied, peering around, “Be ready for anything.”

“Of course.”

“What’s that you’re muttering about?” one of the scouts asked irritably, stepping forward.

“Keep your mind on the mission,” Rota replied sharply, obviously incensed that the cocky scout had the gall to interrupt her conversation with Gorim.

“Right you are, _Commander_ ,” he replied with barely concealed sarcasm.

“And keep an eye out,” she added, her tone demanding, “We don’t know what else lurks in these tunnels.”

The scout made a vague sort of saluting gesture that Rota was sorely tempted to have him publicly flogged for when they got back to Orzammar only because she was already in such a foul mood. They pressed on, every step more painstaking than the lost as they scoured the darkness for traps or an ambush, and found nothing. Soon they were nearing the end of the tunnel without the slightest indicator that Trian was coming for them. The Crown-Prince was very arrogant, perhaps he thought his pitiful attempt in the thiag was enough to get the better of his sister. Rota and Gorim exchanged glances, each wordlessly communicating their doubt as they stepped back into the large cavernous chamber of the Crossroads. What they found there made Rota’s heart nearly leap out of her chest: Trian’s entire escort, including the Crown-Prince, himself, slaughtered and strewn about the stone floor.

For a moment, Rota wasn’t Lady Aeducan, potential Queen of Orzammar, anymore; she was just Roty, Trian’s little sister, and she bolted forward with Gorim close behind. “Rota, wait!” he called after her.

She only had eyes for her fallen brother and her pace slowed as she neared his body until she fell to her knees at his side. “Trian?” she breathed in disbelief, her eyes roving over his corpse as she tried to make sense of what must have happened. He was plotting to kill her, right? That’s what Bhelen had said—had _claimed_. How, then, did Trian end up… _No._ Her eyes shut as the pieces fell into place in her mind.

“By the stone!” Gorim exclaimed when he caught up with her, “It’s Trian!”

“It must have been a Darkspawn attack,” Ivo offered, though he didn’t sound particularly convinced.

“This doesn’t look like Darkspawn,” the scout disagreed, “No bites, no scratches, no mutilation.”

“Bhelen outplayed me,” Rota said, her voice scarcely above a whisper, but Gorim heard her and understood. They had been anticipating the wrong enemy.

Fear flooded his body as sounds coming from the access tunnel drew his attention. “Someone’s coming,” he hissed and they all scattered to take up better positions to fight the new arrivals. All, except Rota who remained at Trian’s side, miserably staring at his blood-covered face. She knew who it must be coming down the tunnel and there was no hiding from him.

“Hurry father!” Bhelen’s voice exclaimed, out of breath as he jogged down the tunnel and into the cavern. He almost sounded convincing, but of course he would. He had played both of his siblings who knew him far better than their father did—or at least, so they thought. “Before it’s too…” he stopped abruptly when he saw Rota cradling Trian’s head in her lap, her expression stricken. For the briefest of moments, he looked heartbroken by the sight of his sister holding the brother he had murdered, but there was something hard and ambitious in Bhelen’s chest, too, and it overcame whatever was left of his heart in the very next beat.

The second the King laid eyes upon the dead body of his eldest son, he was no longer a king, but a grieving father. Rota saw his heart break twice: first at the loss of Trian, and again at the implication that it could be the doing of his darling daughter. He pushed passed Bhelen and staggered toward the bloody mess, his aged body trembling with every step that brought him closer to his dead son. There was so much pain in his eyes when he finally turned his gaze from Trian’s motionless face to Rota’s tear-stained one. He was confused. Half of him already believed what he was seeing, what he was told, but the other half—the loving, fatherly heart that knew his children—didn’t want to accept that one of them had done this to their sibling. For, if Trian had not died by Rota’s hand, then surely it had been by Bhelen’s. The king would lose two children that day, regardless. He sank beneath the weight of it, crushed, and Rota knew from whom she had inherited her soft heart.

“By all the Ancestors,” Endrin declared, his voice monotonous with shock, “What has happened here?”

“It seems we weren’t fast enough,” one of the nobles from the escort insisted, “Bhelen was right!” The slightest hint of a smug smile hid itself well beneath the thick braids of Bhelen’s beard.

Endrin shut his eyes at the accusation, folding in upon himself before he turned his hardened gaze to Rota. The other lords, including Harrowmont and Bhelen stepped closer to witness the slaughter for themselves. Bhelen, with barely concealed indifference, went to the nearby pillar and leaned against it, relaxed. Hardly the attitude of a grieved prince, but no one was really watching him as closely as they were Rota. In the hard voice of the King of Orzammar, Endrin demanded, “My daughter, tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

He had erected a wall around his heart. Rota had inherited that from him, too. “No, father, I did not do this,” she assured, aware that Bhelen’s trap was so well crafted that the only thing she had to rely on was the testimony of the scouts that had been with her the whole time, “We only arrived a moment ago to find—to find Trian already…” She choked back a sob. “To find Trian already dead.”

Bhelen shook his head. “You were here long enough to slay Trian,” he accused and Rota thought there was a note of panic in his tone. Perhaps he feared that his father’s love for her was strong enough to undo his carefully orchestrated scheme.

“My lady is innocent!” Gorim declared vehemently, his eyes wide with a touch of panic. He would gladly stand between her and any threat, but he couldn’t protect her from the Assembly.

Harrowmont’s brow drew in with something akin to sympathy. _Perhaps he is not so easily swayed by Bhelen’s words…_ Rota hoped. “Gorim, your loyalty makes you a useless witness,” he informed him apologetically, “It falls to others to tell this story.” He turned to the scout beside him. “You, scout, what happened here?” he demanded.

The scout didn’t show so much as a flicker of fear or discomfort at being addressed by such a high ranking noble so abruptly. His gaze did not waver as he told Harrowmont his account of things—which was why Rota was so astounded at the blatant lies that tumbled from his lips. “Trian and his men were here early,” he said, “It seemed they’d done battle with the Darkspawn. Lady Aeducan came up to them all _friendly_ like, but when we got close, she ordered us to attack.”

Rota’s jaw went slack and she nearly jumped to her feet to attack the scout or declare her innocence, or something, but she felt the futility of it and the words died on her tongue. There was still Ivo, but somehow, she knew Bhelen would not be so sloppy as to somehow fail to secure his testimony as well. Instead, she turned her head and gazed up at Bhelen.

All of King Endrin’s children had inherited their father’s eyes and it was those same glittering sapphires that now bored into Bhelen’s own. There was nothing to be gained in staring him down. He was too self-assured in his position to be intimidated by her now, but that wasn’t why she did it. Fear wasn’t her objective. She wanted him to know that she knew everything, that she saw him for what he really was. She wanted the image of her eyes glaring into his to haunt him for years to come, the ghost of her memory to always whisper at the back of his mind so persistently that he’d sometimes turn to look over his shoulder for her. Whatever happened, she wanted Bhelen to suffer. After a few long moments, the soon-to-be Crown-Prince, looked away, no longer able to meet the eye of the sister he had betrayed. But Rota kept staring.

“Frandlin Ivo, you are a good and noble man,” Harrowmont continued, frowning at the scout’s testimony, but Ivo looked away from the elder dwarf as if pained by the sound of his name and the words ‘good and noble’ in the same sentence. “Did the scout speak the truth?”

Ivo glanced at Rota who was still glaring at Bhelen. He followed the line of her gaze until he was confronted with the hard, threatening stare of the prince, himself. Bhelen knew Ivo was wavering. He had been the hardest to convince when they were planning everything. Seeing the almost murderous look on Bhelen’s face was enough to remind Ivo what was at stake, what he had been promised, and what he had been threatened with if he didn’t follow through. He hated himself for his weakness, for being so easily bought. “He—he did, my lord,” Ivo replied, his tone level and unconvincing, but he gained momentum as he continued, “It was—terrible. Prince Trian didn’t stand a chance. Afterward, my lady stripped his signet ring…”

“You treacherous bastard!” Gorim bellowed turning toward Ivo and taking a few menacing steps. Ivo stepped back and the others quickly intervened, restraining the Second.

“Silence, Gorim!” King Endrin snapped, jumping to his feet. Gorim shrugged off the lords holding him and made no further attempt on Ivo. Then Endrin looked down at where his daughter sat, still cradling Trian’s head in her lap as she glared up at an unconcerned Bhelen. She still did not look the murderer to him. In fact, when he looked at her now, he was painfully reminded of the day she was born—of her singing in the hallways of the palace when she was a girl—her toothless grin when she began losing her baby teeth—of the bruises that bloomed over her body in direct contradiction of the massive grin plastered over her face after the first day of training—all of those precious childhood memories, neatly strung together with love and memorialized with pride. And yet, she was silent as the testimonies were laid against her. Was it out of hopelessness? Or guilt? “Do you have anything else to say, my daughter?” he asked, drawing her attention away from Bhelen.

“Yes,” she said softly and then she lovingly lifted Trian’s head high enough to slide out from beneath it and gently let him rest against the stone. She stood up. “I did not kill my brother, father,” she stated with all the conviction of her being, “In your heart, you know it to be true. Bhelen has spun this web of lies I am now trapped in…”

“The Assembly will see through you,” Bhelen interrupted, “Everyone knows I was Trian’s faithful Second.”

Rota did not hide the disgust in her face at his words, but she did not look away from Endrin. “Tread carefully, father,” she pleaded, “He will come for you next.”

“And now she threatens the king, himself!” Bhelen declared triumphantly.

But Endrin didn’t look convinced. His gaze darted toward his youngest and then back to Rota. Perhaps he nodded. Perhaps he didn’t. She couldn’t tell, the gesture was so small. And then he turned away. “Bind her,” Harrowmont ordered, “She will be judged before the Assembly. To Orzammar.”

Gorim’s heart shattered as he watched the love of his life submit to arrest. She did not resist as they bound her and he did his best to emulate his lady, by mirroring her cool demeanor, but it was so much harder when all he wanted to do was tear Bhelen’s lying tongue from his mouth. As Rota was led passed Bhelen, she stopped and the guards were so used to doing as she bid, they stopped with her. She looked at her little brother and Gorim half expected, half hoped that she would spit in his face, but instead, he saw her dislodge the mask of Lady Aeducan and lay her pain bare before the prince as Rota, his sister. “I held you in my arms when you were born,” she said, “And I never loved anything so quickly as I loved you.”

“Take her away,” Bhelen growled, looking away.

“You did well, brother,” she continued loudly as she was guided forward, “My only weakness was you.” Perhaps it was a vain desire for some scrap of vindication, but Gorim thought he saw sadness in Bhelen’s eyes. It wouldn’t excuse what the prince had done, of course. Nothing would. And it didn’t lessen Gorim’s burning need to rip the smug bastard’s head off, but for Rota’s sake, he prayed to the Ancestors that Trian’s blood had left an eternal mark upon his soul—that there was some measure of regret, however small. And then the expression was gone nearly as quickly as it had appeared. _Ancestors spit on you, kinslayer_ , Gorim though venomously, his heart hardening.

* * *

Rota was not allowed to attend Trian’s funeral which was as good a confirmation as any that the Assembly thought her guilty. She had yet to hear of their final decision, but she expected no less than a victory for Bhelen. He was allowed to speak freely on the Assembly floor, after all, while she was doomed to silence in the palace dungeons. But she sang the dirge when she heard the music rumbling through the stone and she wept for her older brother’s untimely death and her own miserable situation. Then, all there was to do was wait for her fate to be decided and pray that Gorim had not already received judgement and died for actions not his own.

It was during one such meditative prayer, that she heard the cell block door at the end of the hall open. _So it is time, then…_ but she did not open her eyes. Instead, she remained where she was seated, on the floor, her back pressed against the stone of the wall. “You got ten minutes, ser,” the guard informed the visitor, “Orders and all. You understand.”

“Of course,” the visitor replied, “Leave us alone, will you, please?” Rota’s eyes shot open. That voice definitely belonged to Gorim.

“Yes, sir.” And the guard returned to his post as Gorim reached the bars of Rota’s cell.

She jumped to her feet and hurried to the bars, unrestrained joy and relief taking over her features. If Gorim was visiting her, then he was relatively safe, and the guard had called him ‘ser,’ so he was still commanding respect. Was it too much to hope that the Assembly had seen through Bhelen instead of buying into his lies? “Gorim!” she croaked, her voice small from disuse. She wanted to reach through the bars and touch him, but she didn’t. She didn’t know what the unsolicited contact would mean for Gorim if others found out, so she wrapped her anxious fingers around the bars instead.

“I would have come sooner, had they allowed it,” he said, apologetically as he leaned closer to her, but maintained a sparse three-inch distance between the contact of their skin. He wanted to touch her as badly as she wanted to feel him. “How are you?”

She blinked. Something was off. He was acting strangely. Distant. Even before all this tragedy had happened, he was never so cold. And she dared to let her heart wonder if perhaps he was distancing himself from her now because it would save his own skin. “I am fine,” she replied, her hands dropping from the bars as she took a half-step backward, “You?”

As if connected by invisible strings, Gorim stepped forward when she stepped back, resting his hands on the bars where her fingers had warmed them. His mouth twitched beneath his beard with a hundred different things he wanted to say to her, but couldn’t. Exasperated, he looked down the cell block to the guard to see if he was listening. “I was worried for you,” he ground out and the tension in her face eased, her demeanor softened. He was the same Gorim he had ever been, still trying to protect what was left of her reputation. How could she think otherwise?

“And I for you, my heart,” she said, returning to the bars and daring to rest her hands beside his so that her fingers grazed his knuckles.

“I bring you little but bad news, though,” he continued regretfully, “Bhelen has taken Trian’s place in the Assembly. He introduced a motion to condemn you immediately and it easily passed.” He paused at Rota’s sharp inhalation, but continued when she did not speak. “He had fully half the Assembly ready to vote on something completely against tradition and justice. He must have been making deals and alliances for months, if not years.”

“So we were truly powerless to stop him, then,” she said almost to herself, her gaze shifting off aimlessly as she considered Gorim’s words, “Bhelen has been playing the long game.”

Gorim wanted to comfort her, but he had no way of doing so. The future—especially hers—looked bleak. “The Assembly has already sentenced both of us,” he said instead.

Her eyes darted back to his. “What’s going to happen to you?”

Stone preserve him, she was still thinking him first. “My knighthood will be stripped,” he answered, his voice heavy; his punishment, though much kinder than the one bestowed upon her, still caused him great pain, “My name torn from my family records, but I will be allowed to attempt some sort of life on the surface.”

Rota’s face broke into a weak, hopeful smile, and it only made him love her more. “I’m glad the Assembly demonstrated _some_ leniency,” she said, “I know it will be hard leaving this life behind, but at least you still have a life to live.”

“Lord Harrowmont moved for a similar exile for you,” Gorim said, pushing through the reluctance gnawing at his words; she needed to hear what he had to say, “But Bhelen’s supporters overwhelmed him. You are to be sealed in the Deep Roads to fight Darkspawn until you are overwhelmed and killed.”

Rota pursed her lips, but did not look surprised. With a funny little nod, she seemed to accept her fate. “What does my father say about this?” she asked.

Gorim hesitated. He knew it would break her heart to hear of her beloved father’s health, but there was no point in shielding her from it now. “Lord Harrowmont says the King has taken ill,” he informed her, “He couldn’t bear losing two of his children at once.”

“Taken ill or poisoned?” she asked, darkly, “I said father would be next.” She closed her eyes briefly and sighed. “Ancestors watch over him,” she prayed, “Bhelen cannot be rewarded for all his wicked deeds.”

“From your lips to their ears,” Gorim agreed, “But, I think your father knew the truth.”

“Did he say as much?” she asked hopefully. It would have helped her very little even if the King had vehemently believed in her innocence because his voice would have been swallowed whole by the majority of the Assembly.

“No, but Lord Harrowmont gave me access to see you so I could tell you this: before your father sickened, he made arrangements with the Legion of the Dead,” he explained, “It is not official. Your name will not be recorded amongst them and you cannot fight to redeem yourself for the crimes laid against you. With Bhelen set to ascend the throne and the Legion only directly answerable to the King, it is too risky. But if you survive long enough to find Kardol, he will shelter you and maybe you can find a way out of the Deep Roads from there.”

Rota smiled sadly. It was not the confirmation she had been hoping for. Her father’s interference in her sentencing was only a demonstration of his love for her and his reluctance to lose a second child. “I will find Kardol,” she assured, placing her hands over Gorim’s and squeezing.

The heat of her hands warmed Gorim’s heart and he leaned his forehead against her fingers, heedless of unwanted and unwelcomed attention. “I begged to go with you and fight at your side,” he lamented, “But Bhelen’s pet nobles wouldn’t hear of it.”

“You’re safer on the surface, my love,” she said gently, “My heart beats easier knowing you are not in danger.”

“I would give up all the safety in the world to go down this dark path with you,” he insisted, straightening to look at her through the bars again, his eyes cataloguing every last freckle of her face, tattoo of her skin, that one endearingly stubborn strand of hair that insisted on falling into her eyes no matter how hard she tried to style it back, the welcome pout of her lips, her cute button nose, and those sodding blue eyes like pools of glittering lyrium. He had to remember it all, just in case… _No._ He couldn’t allow himself to think of it. “I’m going to try to go to Denerim, the human capital,” he informed her with renewed determination, “If you make it out, find me.” And he pulled away from her to leave before he unraveled before her very eyes.

“Wait, please!” she said with more desperation than he had ever heard from her before. She was not a woman who begged.

“We have no time, my heart,” he warned, glancing back at the guard who was taking his time in unlocking the cell block door.

Rota didn’t spare a glance for the guard. “Just hold me one last time,” she said, her eyes soft and round. It was a last request. He had to know, had to see it in her face how much she needed him right now before she faced the inevitable.

Gorim stepped back toward the bars. “The guards won’t keep quiet about something like that,” he insisted, “Your family will know…”

“What family?” she asked, “My father is ill and my brother a murderer. What does it matter now? I’m to be cut loose from them anyway, why can’t I have this last moment free of the golden chains that bound me my entire life? Please, my heart, let me feel your touch one more time without fear of who might catch us.”

“As you say, my dearest one.”

He held her through the bars; their cold, persistent presence a reminder of the hopelessness of their situation. She was sentenced to death and he was not. The one woman his entire life was built around was going to die and there was nothing he could do about it. He wasn’t even granted the honor of fighting and dying at her side. Suddenly, every moment he had ever spent without her in his arms felt wasted. Propriety and politics had robbed him of the precious little time he had been granted to spend with her and now, whatever was left was slipping through his fingers like loose sand. He cursed himself for not being a higher caste, for not being worthy of courting her properly, openly, and without restraint, for not being the man she deserved, the one that could have protected her from everything. He wished they could have run away together to the surface as they had joked about in the warm, lazy moments after sex when the only people in the world who mattered were wrapped in the sheets of her bed.

With great pain, he recalled their last night together. At least he had done the imprudent thing for once, and stayed with her through the night. But the words they had spoken to each other in the darkness of her bedchamber smacked of cruelty now. He had made her swear to keep living even should he die and she had agreed, grudgingly. But it wasn’t his life that was in danger, now. It was hers. And how could he live without her? As if reading his thoughts, she turned slightly in his embrace, her face squished between the bars as she angled to speak into his ear. “Honor me by living, my love,” she whispered, her voice thick with pain, “I would have you live a long and happy life without me instead of a brief and bloody one at my side.”

He didn’t care what the guard did or didn’t see then and kissed her unreservedly through the bars of her cell, tasting deeply of her mouth. Her tears ran freely down her face, staining their last kiss with the bitter saltiness of her fate. “I will always love you, my lady,” he growled against her lips.

“And I you,” she whispered back.

“They are ready for you now, my lady,” the guard muttered softly, not wanting to intrude upon the tender moment, but he had his orders. Grudgingly, they separated and Gorim was made to leave the cell block while the guard removed Rota from her cell. When she was escorted out into the hall to be guided to her fate, she caught one last glance of her lover as he stared at her from the other end of the hall. Only twenty feet, maybe, but it fell like miles of Darkspawn-infested Deep Roads. She tried to look at him as long as she could before they were both forced to look away and move on.

* * *

The doors to Orzammar closed with the loud thud of stone against stone and Rota was left alone in the Deep Roads with only a sword and shield on her back and nothing else. In the eerie quiet of the tunnel, she heard the skittering of cave animals like giant spiders and nugs, but she also heard the distant grunts of Darkspawn. This was her life now, or what was left of it, at least. Clenching her jaw so tightly that it began to ache, she drew her weapon and took her first few steps forward. She’d fight like she had nothing to lose, because everything had been taken from her. The life she had before, the future she had imagined, her father, Gorim—even insufferable Trian. And still, she would not lay down and die. There was the smallest glimmer of hope at the end of the tunnel and if she reached it, maybe she’d have the life with Gorim that she had always dreamed about, but hid behind pillow-talk jests. If she died—well—at least she had had the chance to say goodbye and Gorim, her shield, her heart, would live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Effing. Sad.
> 
> I personally _love_ Gorim; I think that's why so much of this story was told from his point of view instead of Rota's. And it adds to the whole, "She's larger than life because she's an Aeducan" thing. Always observed, but never really understood. Except by Gorim, of course. :)


End file.
